


why don't you come up sometide (and sea me)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Bad Puns, Bulges and Nooks, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Fish Puns, IN SPACE!, Xeno, biggest sugar mama in all of paradox space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:21:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her Imperial Condescension ==> Cod DAMN, get a load of that bass</p><p>Cadet Ampora==> Surf yoar Empress (whether you pike it or naut)</p>
            </blockquote>





	why don't you come up sometide (and sea me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rainbowpui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowpui/gifts).



> Request: Her Imperious Condescension notices one of the cute newly ascended seadwellers ranking well in basic training. Being noticed is not necessarily the best thing. Eridan is pretty scared and not 100% ok with this...but its not like he can say no to the empress.

==> Be the blinged out beach with the bad weave

Hold right the _fuck_ up there, guppy. 

A rephrasing betta be coming, or a lady gonna get mad. Get even, mora like, just getting mad is a waste of tide. Moby a grey faced fucker thinks a beach can't reach through the screen to fork a motherfucker good but seariously, don't bank on that being the correct state of affairs atoll.

Ceviche?

==> Be the most awe-inspiring and tastefully adorned, Her Imperial Condescension

That's _betta_.

Back to business.

This cadet officer intake list and a special lil guppy here who's caught your viewing ocular, on the primary. 

Ocray, so it ain't business atoll. This moray perchsonal. Pleasurable.

Of course, you ain't ushoally all up in the business of the new cadets aport from the bit where you show up to whelkome them to the Academy once they've been lifted up into the schoolfeeding cruiser post-Ascension. You like your meat a little more prime, littoral moray _ripe_ , so to speak. But every so often, you otter admit it, you're tempted by some of the high achievers and this guppy got some scores that are about off the charts, and he ain't bad to the eye either. Cute little coloured streak in his hair and all. Nice shaped horns. And that is one sweet and trim lil bass in the official black jumpsuit with the pretty fuchsia of your blood and violet trimmings of his, you can't deny. Betta than you've seen for a whale and it ain't like you ain't seen a whole lot of plush rump pass through the halls of your fleet academy, your spawning grounds for loyal offishers and nobletrolls. It's somefin about the uniform, does good things to the glutes, as does the physical training regime they gotta swim through. And when you're the Empress, why bother holding back on anyfin? They all belong to you, they live their lives at your whim, as they oughta, and they betta know it too. Betides, buoy manta even enjoy it. He shoald. You've been doing this for a long tide, and he's what, had just the one drone season? Two at the most, and you doubt the second. You're gonna blow his mind.

All he needs to do is think of it as a reward for his past and future surfice.

You ain't even breakering into any quads. He ain't got none declared on his paperwork. That makos him fair game, far as you're conchcerned. He would be anywave but you ain't expecting him to have any moral conundrums in the twilight, that's what you're sayin here. And if he's any good...whelk. Moby you'll keep him around for a littoral fun on the side. You ain't had a sugargrub lounging around your quarters for a good few sweeps. Might be good for your temper, having a pretty lil piece of pailbait at your beck and call. Oh, outside of his duties, of course. You ain't got so many offishers that you're gonna throw him out with the trash once you're done with him, especially not ones with his kinda scores. You want that steady eye, that keen mind serving you for centuries to come. Still...you're thinking you're gonna have some good old fashioned kinda fun pier.

The videofeed from his physical proves that it ain't just the uniform giving a guppy a helping frond. Mother Grub be blessed for giving a buoy a bass like that.

You are glubbin' _intrigued_.

You send an invitation, one someone as small fry as this Eridan Ampora can't reelly refuse, not if he knows what's good for him.

==> Be the wide-eyed new cadet

You'd object to that demeaning characterisation, but the blinking fuchsia on your Trollian screen is leading you astray from your usual 'contemptuously detached from the plebeian surroundings you find yourself in' sneer.

You're pretty fuckin' sure that this ain't normal protocol for someone like you to come to an Imperial banquet but if it's the Empress making the request, you guess normal protocol would go out the viewing aperture portal. You've been keeping your head down, more or less, trying to make yourself less of a target while you learn the ropes and work on hauling yourself into the position of power that you deserve (because of your blood, because of _who you are_ , damn it) but doing less than your best just wasn't possible for you. Your aim is beyond fuckin' compare and you won't pretend you can't take a shot that you can make with the merest twitch of your finger, with both your eyes closed even. Not like you're a slouch in the academics either, you're not stupid. There are those who would beg to differ, but they're. You've left them behind you. Cut your chains of sentiment and misplaced affections, you've moved on. 

They have as well, obviously, it's not like they've been begging for your attention of late, like they should be. And if you've left more than one screed of violet text on a greyed out chat handle (on a few greyed out chat handles), that's nobody else's fucking business but your own. You don't think that any of the superior officers here care if a cadet messages a few old schoolfeeding friends, an old FLARP rival or two. Especially since you ain't getting no replies in return. You never say anything that's even close to traitorous. Just you don't have nobody to talk to here, and it's hard, it's hard and you never thought you'd miss any landdwellers at all, ever, but here you are, messaging those greyed out names as though they were gonna respond all the same.

It takes a few moments for you to gather your racing thoughts, but you type out a respectful and affirmative reply to the blinking glaring lines of fuchsia text inviting you to a banquet that should be far above your current position.

It is the Empress, after all. Maybe someone is finally seeing you for what you are, for what you're worth.

That's what you tell yourself, and you try to believe it. Maybe this is something connected to the duties you fulfilled on the surface of Alternia prior to Ascension, maybe it's about your ancestor. Dualscar. Maybe it's something Her Imperial Condescension does for all the trolls who make the impressively high scores you do across all your classes; you've always been a high achiever in the things that mattered. You have to believe it's something you earned. You can't think of any other reason that would have the Empress contacting you out of the blue like this. It's either Orphaning, your marks, or Dualscar. You can't think of anything else it could be.

Shit. Is your formal uniform even _clean_? Apparently this banquet is in the morning hours of morrownight. That ain't giving you a whole heap of notice here to get shit to the laundriterrorists. Fuck everything to the deepest hells. You better make sure that you have something to wear.

Oh fuck, what happened to your cape?

This is the Empress. Her Imperial fucking Condescension. You gotta look your best.

This could be the thing that makes or breaks your career.

You're going to make sure that you do everything you can to _make_ it.

==> Be the blueblood in charge of throwing the party

You are Hysrik Vantel. You don't have time for this; it isn't just a _party_.

It's an official function for Her Imperial Condescension, and there are far too many things to get exactly _correct_ , especially considering your _very_ short time frame for preparation. She sent the orders down last night, in order for things to be set up for morrownight. It just really isn't _very much time at all_. You've got far too much work to get done to be distracted.

...please don't let someone have burnt the cake. That is smoke with a distinct pastry undertone, you can smell it.

You are going to be _culled_. You should have taken the position on the _Mirthful Hilarity_ , the prestige of working on the _Condescension_ be damned. Even clowns would be easier to work for than this.

==> Be the motherglubbing wicked fishbitch

Ocray, yeah, you'll take it.

Buoy be looking shy as fuck, shit's adorabubble and he has the old school formal uniform on with the lil capelet around his shoulders. You ain't seen that old style in an age, and it's kinda nostalgic - suits him, he got a face that makos you think you've seen him before but you can't pin it down just minnow - figure it out later, if you can be bothered aboat it. The wriggler's being reel polite, kinda got a bit of a dramatic flair to the things he does say, runs on a little at the facegash, but right now you just think it's cute as fuck. You're more than shore that at least one offisher at the ceremonial nutritional plane has picked up on the general cut of your jib as to why exactly this fresh catch wriggler is sitting up wave them and getting your perchsonal attention, but prawnestly, you've never given a fuck. What's the point of being Empress if you can't do what the fuck you want? That's wharf you'd like to minnow. If a beach can't do exactly as her pusher pleases, then what's the fucking point considering the bullshark you gotta put up wave at the best of tides? Ain't been nobody who could answer that to your satisfaction, not wave out you achin' to put a culling fork right through their thorax. Although if you're gonna be honest here, it's remora your bulge that's leading you in this situation, than your pusher.

You would put a few caegers down that this guppy got a nook that ain't ever handled somefin like you.

Gotta be sinful tight.

Cod damn vice.

You beckon in one of the servers and tell them on the down low to make sure that the fingerling's wineglass stays full, before turning your attention back to the conversation going on around you. Turn on a little charm down the table, right at the current object of your fascination. He ain't never gonna know what hit him. You're gonna sweep him off his cod damn walking struts.

What pupa could resist you, after all?

==> Be the flirted with wriggler

You're gonna be sick.

You think you've drank too much. Your glass just never seemed to get empty, your wineglass at least; your water glass didn't get quite the same level of attention. The food is lush, plentiful, you've never had anything quite like it. Dessert comes across your plate and you pick at the ostentatious slice of cake with its little dribble of pinkberry sauce and curls of chocolate, looking up as the Empress makes a joke. You smile, show your fangs and laugh a little at her wordplay. You don't think about the other seadweller that you knew who had had the same fascination with oceanic puns. That's far, far behind you.

As good as you are, you can't make your earfins lie for you. They're kinda flattened, and you try your best to lift them up, get 'em perky and interested, you don't want to offend. But the grin on the Empress' face is...it's putting you off. You're having a lot of second thoughts about agreeing to this dinner (even if there was never any way you could have said no), and when she rises up from the table and everyone else rises with her, and then she directs you to accompany her...second thoughts is the fucking least of what you're having. Your acidsac is churning. Something is off here. You can feel the drunken flush rising heated along the tines of your earfins, and you have another swallow of wine to quieten down your internal misgivings about the situation before getting to your feet and since you're the one with the lower status here, you take her arm, rest your fingers steady on the back of it. 

She leads you out.

You can smell her perfume as her curving hip presses against your body, her pace smooth and slow as she matches your shorter strides. It's something deep and cloying, almost animal, and there's a hint of brine like you haven't smelt since you left your hive (your lusus). The Empress leans down to say something into your ear, and you feel the cool touch of her mouth against your fin, almost on your cheek as she murmurs a remark softly about being impressed with your scores. The comment buoys you up almost immediately; this is normal, somehow. This is just about your top ranking in your officer classes, and nothing more. Things are fine; your relentless paranoia is just making you antsy. You had some hard time clawing your way ahead of that bitch in your Logistics class, but you're glad you did, this is going to be good for you. Your career is gonna fuckin' accelerate, thanks to this, you're sure of it. You're gonna have the pick of what you want when you graduate, if you play this right, if you can get your decorated gambling slips in the right order.

"Thank you, your Imperial Majesty. Kind a you to notice."

"A guppy does the work, guppy gets what's coming to him for doin' it. Ain't you just polite as glub, buoy...I pike it."

Heavy doors close behind you with a small soft sound of finality that would send a shiver down your spine were you the shivering sort, and you start a little, wanting to look back over your shoulder as she moves confidently forward and brings you with her. You don't know how to pull back, you're swamped and dragged into her undertow inexorably as she leads you forward and through to one of the chairs. Pulls you down to sit next to her on a loveseat as a few of the older trolls, trolls you've already recognised as lords and ladies of the court, admirals, old, they're old and powerful - not as old and powerful as the Empress, but they're movers and fuckin' shakers, they're planet destroyers and -

_Fucking shit, that's a hand on your thigh_

\- they don't look down, none of them, as the Empress' fingers curl around the inside of your leg, her fingernails pressing little indents into the fabric of your pants, and they talk about massacres and the utter impossibility of teaching the new cadets anything and the even more remote possibility of teaching new lowblood servants fresh from planetsurface and still puking from being in space how to do something as simple as shine a pair of boots. The conversation is a buzz that reverberates above your horns as your shoulders hunch a little and her fingers are rubbing, fuck they're - what the fuck is going on here. You freeze, and her fingers rub and the low rumble of pure adult voices washes over you and the Empress says something, there's a ripple of laughter, and they all continue to talk as though what is going on ain't fuckin' happening. Like she ain't pretty much fondling you like some kinda cheap hussy right here in front of them, you're going to fucking die of shame. Is this all you were invited for? You shouldn't have had that last glass of wine, it isn't sitting very friendly in your stomach all of a sudden. Her perfume is abruptly rank in your nostrils and you swallow back something, breathe quietly to yourself and concentrate on not throwing up and disgracing yourself in the company you find yourself in. 

Someone says your name and you look up, manage to say something in return to a question as though a cool hand ain't plastered across your thigh and smile. You smile. They laugh, so you must have done well enough with your reply, the husky chuckle of the Empress crawling down the back of your spine like some kinda webspinner. The conversation continues, dialogue being tossed back and forth from one set of serrated fangs to another, thin black lips spreading in smiles, fins fluttering at the side of every face. Except yours. Your fins are still and flat, and the Empress' hand is plastered against your thigh, her pinkie almost nudged up against your nook through the crotch of your pants. You are in so. Much. Fucking. Shit. This can't be happening. This is shit that just can not be fucking happening.

How the fuck do you tell the Empress, Her Imperial fuckin' Condescension, Grand Tyrant of Alternia, Most Bright and Terrible, to get her fucking _fondling snatchfronds_ off your god damn _fucking thigh_ without getting culled on the spot?

You realise with a sick swoop of your stomach that you can't.

==> Be the biggest beach in the block

You keep your hand on the smooth young flesh under your palm as the conversation flows in its glubbin predictable flows and eddies, and you raise at eyebrow at one of your oldest statestrolls and tip your horns just a fraction to the exit. There was a point to this whole thing, and it hadn't been talking business to your fucking admirals over a nice glass of wine and some good grub. They wrap it up like the pros they wanna think they are, none of them are stupid or at least they ain't blatantly glubbin' so to your face. They've survived centuries of temper tantrums from you, as well as each other's machinations and betrayals - let's go with they ain't dumb. A littoral quick on the uptake even (acshoally, you're pretty sure that one of them was your sugargrub one sweep - you don't do this often, but you _do_ do this). Guppy almost gets to get up and go wave 'em, but you tighten your grip and mackerel shore he stays right where he is. There's not a murmur of protest, although he's kinda stiff and tense. Nervous, probubbly. Good buoy, not makoing a fuss aboat ship; he can see the drift when it's obvious in the water, at the very fuckin' least. You didn't pick him out for the content of his thinkpan, more the way his ass looks in those delightfully tight pants, but you know he's not a complete dumbass.

Once they're gone, you let go of the control you've been keeping of yourself and your pheromones swamp the room like a spring tide, and he breathes in and his eyes dilate. Go all big and dark, mouth even dropping open a littoral and that's just gonna mako things mora intense for him as he breathes deep. You have enough centuries under your belt that you've got this ship down to a fine art, and your fins flutter as you cup his chin in your hands, rings pressing against his soft adolescent skin as your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, tilt his mouth up to yours and kiss him like you could devour him. He tastes like wine and he's still under your mouth, rasping intake of breath about the only reaction you get. You press deeper, until your tongue is probing his mouth as he melts underneath you and you push him down and back into the couch, getting a hand on that delectable ass that you've been mentally drooling over, squeezing as you kiss him into submission.

Yeah, that's the stuff. Firm, with just the right amount of give. You get your thigh up between his slender legs and rock it, rubbing up against him as you lick your way into his mouth, feeling the shape of his pretty pointy fangs. It takes a bit to get him going, but you're patient enough, and instincts soon take over just like you knew they would. All wriggly downstairs and gasping into your mouth as his hands come up to clutch on your shoulders. A chuckle escapes your mouth and you rub your thigh up against the shape of his bulge in his pants a little harder, before moving your grin over so you can nibble at his flicking earfin, catching it between your teeth reel careful-like. That gets you a proper good moan, in this choked back little gasp so you do it again.

Nice and responsive, sensitive. You think you're gonna like this one. Moby you'll keep him.

You pull his legs up and around your hips and settle in proper; start undoing his shirt. You wanna sea your present to yourshellf all proper undone, and panting to be pailed. He's well on his way. You think you reelly gonna enjoy this. Betta his nook is a cod damn _sonnet_.

==> Be the ravished subordinate

_Sweet fuckin' merciful cod_.

What the fuck is going on here? You don't know how to push her off without giving offence as she kisses you, as everything goes kinda dizzy and dark at the edges as her tongue slides into your mouth like it's got a right to be there and you're pressed back down onto the soft cushions like the witless domestic chattel love interest in a bad bodice ripper of the flushed variety (you're taking it flushed, since she isn't biting or clawing at you, just kissing you and holy shit, rubbing her thigh up against the seam of your pants) and she's the fucking highblood of the manor born. Which she is, you guess, but you are too, and this is moving far too fuckin' quickly for your liking and you don't how to say stop, let alone slow down. The way she looms over you, covers you, she's so much _bigger_ and there's that musky scent again with the undertone of salt, thicker than ever and you can't help the gasp you give out as cool fingers pop the tabs on your trousers and slid inside, slick violet length more than eager to curl around them. Squeeze. Get squeezed back. Oh shit, her hand is in your pants, _she's undone your fuckin' fly_ , and oh _fuck_. Your head is spinning, and every breath makes it worse as her fangs prick your earfin, and you whimper. Can't manage to keep the disgraceful sound back. 

The ludicrous fishbitch seems to take it as a sign of approval, because oh fuck, look at that. Your shirt is undone and her hand is sliding against your chest. How is this happening so fast? You put your hands on her shoulders, and tighten your grip a little, trying to get the lurch in your stomach under control, breathing too fast as as her mouth kisses at your throat. Real intimate, shit you wouldn't let another troll _fuckin' do_ unless they were in a proper square, but how do you peel the hands of the Empress off your body without getting culled? Cold fingers, colder gold encircling your bulge and you don't know whether to be humiliated or relieved that your bulge is out, because you don't even want to fucking think on what she would have done if you had had the bad taste not to be aroused by her. Bullet dodged. 

...don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh.

The inappropriate humour bubbles up in you anyway and you hide your face against the curve of her neck, feeling the spike of her earfins beat against your face, scratch you lightly, as you make yourself spread your legs and try to relax. Lie back, think of Alternia. Think about the captaincy you're sure to get out of this. Her teeth are cold on your skin as she nips at you, her fingers are colder and you manage to force a credible moan as they press against your nook. You're not. You're not. You're not okay. This is not okay. This is the furthest from fucking okay as you've ever been, and you FLARP'd with Vriska Serket. The fabric of the cushions is imprinting on your ass as you lift your hips and she pulls your pants down with something close to a flourish, your boots gone with them as she grabs and pulls. Seeming relentless in her quest to see you naked and she leans back with one spread hand on your chest to make sure you stay right where she wants you to be, looks down and takes you in.

You stare back up.

Everything about her looks hungry, from her fuchsia eyes to her needle-like teeth and too wide mouth, fuchsia-tined earfins flared out wide in arousal, and you hope that your mild lurch of terror as you swallow hard looks like something more like what you think she wants, for you to look like you want her. Want this. You're gonna. You're Eridan fuckin' Ampora, and you are gonna find a way to make this work for you. Not against you. For you. And there's plenty of trolls who'd kill to be in your position, they'd happily flay you from foot to horntip, they'd wear your claws as buttons if they could have this chance. Not just the chance maybe of more rank, more prestige (what does the Empress's fucktoy get, aside from a heaping serve of her bulge? you don't know, _you don't know_ ), but just being with her. Being fucked by the Empress. They'd think that was more than enough. She's. Different, this close. Nothing like the elegant and tightly focused tyrant of the propaganderrist vids. You wonder if being this close up to their idol would plunge in a ripple of apprehension in their shallow fuckin' minuscule minds.

You're gonna suffocate under the smell of the sea and that undercurrent of musk, and she leans back down to kiss you while her mass of hair falls around you both like a tent. It's silky against your skin, a caress that makes nerve endings tingle, and you squeeze your eyes close as her fingers stroke, one, two, three, over the slit of your nook. You can feel her claws. Your body is a fuckin' traitor, it's coming undone around you, you can - fuck - you can feel yourself getting wet as she strokes you open with gentle fingertips, just rubbing real soft and slow over the entrance to your nook.

"Mmm, you a pretty lil thing," she croons into your auricular clot, tongue licking across the fan of your earfin as she murmurs. Her breath is chill on your skin, as cold as her fingertips. Reminds you of shit you'd rather not fucking think of, of someone, of hands touching you pale and gentle - no. No. You're pretty much naked and bare and she's still - she's zipped up, barely even breathing hard as your throat clutches around a moan you don't know you're really feeling. The smile on her face grows, like it's gonna split her face open from side to side and something terrible will come crawling out. You're a seadweller but you're fuckin' drowning here. 

Her fingers push inside you and your back arches like you're fucking seizing, right on her revoltingly hot pink couch, while your brain shorts out.

All you can taste on your tongue is salt.

==> Be the cod damn tidal wave

Yeah, shore, no probubblem.

You are the cod damn tidal wave.

You swamp this buoy you got pinned under your sweetass body in pailing pheromones until his eyes go dizzyblank and his hips are pushing up into you like he's a step away from throwing you down and mounting you his own self. That's the way you like your lil sugargrubs, all sweet and wanting and _oh so fuckin' needy_. A gill likes to be appreciated, after all. You kiss him stupid, rubbing his sweet soppin' nook and letting the length of his bulge curl around your wrist as you fingerbang him on your couch. Sounds nice and slick around your fingers, you're mostly careful not to push in too far so your rings scratch him up on the inside. You ain't feeling black, just kinda fluffy. Not flush, just feel like you wanna be a littoral crayful. Dolphinately ain't black, anywave. Pretty lil guppy like this, you ain't feeling no lustful hate here. Just wanna pail him shelly, that's all. You're shore he's gonna take rayght to it, like a quackbeast fledge to water.

Leaning back, you pull your fingers from his nook with a squelch and smear violet down the front of your bodysuit as you undo the stickyseal, peeling it off your shoulders. Rumblespheres, grubscars and your gills take a grateful stretch in your sides, flaring wide before sealing back up when they realise there's no fuckin water around for them to open to. It burns, but it's the good kind of burn, same as this sprat is gonna net when you push your bulge up into that sweetly tight violet-leaking nook. It ain't like he has gotta do much for you to be happy, all he gotta do is lie back and take it, mako moray of those pretty lil noises. Surf his Empress. You push his thighs apart and lower yourself down, letting your bulge get all frondly wave his nook. Fuckin. Tight.

"Let me hear how you pike it, buoy -" shit what's his name, what's his fuckin' name (you can't be blamed, you've had thousands of conquests over the sweeps), "- let all that sweet noise out." You nip his earfin, and feel your bulge slide deep into him, this sweet clenching feeling as he wraps himself around you, the tips of his claws digging into your shoulders. Shift your hips the right wave, and he _moans_. What a sensitive little guppy you've hooked for yourshellf. You press him back onto the couch and feel your bulge squirm deep, tip flicking against his seedflap, rolling against his globes as you fill him deep enough to split him. You can smell his youthful pheromones rising up to meet your nose as you start to move, a littoral fear and pain amongst the sweet smell of his mating scent, his bulge pressing against the muscles of your stomach, the round of you as you thrust into him. Press him under you as he gasps, moans, lets out a few little 'Fuck!'s, these desperate sounding littoral cries that mako you want to pail him till he cries actual tears and spills all over your fucking couch.

Your claws graze his grubscars, and you croon as he whimpers into your skin. Mouthing at his neck and up to the tips of his earfin, you settle in to enjoy yourshellf. And good cod, are you gonna. Such a tight lil nook. Pretty lil face. He's so fucking _desperate_. You're gonna stuff him with bulge and slurry until he's tapped right the glub out.

==> Be the bucket

You can't stop your mouth, but you're kind of thankful that all you can do is swear. It ain't objecting, at least, you can't - how do you say - how could you even manage to get a no outta your mouth and mean it, make her listen to it. It'd just make her mad. Furious, you bet. She's - _fuck_ \- she's so deep inside you, it's like you can feel your hips creaking under the strain as she surges forward inexorable as a seaquake, you can't do this. You can't take this. Her tongue curls over your earfin and you shudder, feeling yourself clench down on the immense curl of her titanic-sized and chillingly arctic bulge in your stretching nook and she croons. Trills at you, soppy flushed mating sounds like you wouldn't have thought the Empress could even _make_ , and then she pulls out and you choke, feeling like she's dragging half your insides with her. You can't help it, you grab at her and trill like a wantonly desperate tramp, and she fucking _grins_ , oh, you're glad someone is feeling fucking pleased. Like she's getting her, _oh cod_ , her money's worth, you suppose.

If you could have managed to say anything besides fuck, you're pretty sure you'd be hysterical. If, of course, you weren't you. All you gotta do is get past this. You've done worse. This is just. It's just pailing, _it doesn't matter_ , you're going to be ok. You're going to get through this and make her happy, she's gonna be pleased with you and you're going to be ok. Nobody else needs to know this happened. You tell yourself anything so you can get through this (as though those admirals who were in here, trolls you admired, as though they didn't know what was going on when they _left you with her_ ), and you can't breathe, your tongue is coated in salt and you can't breathe. Your bulge is squirming against your belly and your nook just feels fuckin' empty, and like it wants nothing more than her back in it.

"Up on your belly for me, _Eridan_." At least, you suppose, she knows who you are. You're not nameless to her. Her tongue lingers on your name in a way that makes you want to puke, but you manage a shaky nod and turn over. Roll over on the couch as her hands caress your ass, press her thumbs against the cheeks and spreads you open to show off your probably swollen nook. Flush with arousal, smeared with violet genematerial and stretched open from the way she'd been pushing into you, so deep you thought she was going to come out your cod damn mouth. Her rings are cooler than her fingers, gold pressing against your skin in noticeable spots of chill. 

You're spread open wide by her fingers, rings biting at the delicate skin and you can feel the wiggling tip of her bulge work itself into your nook and just _sliiiiide_ right on in. Straight into the chasm it left and you're left choking on your tongue, pushing your hips back into it as it fills you up. Makes you feel complete. She's more serious about it now, bulge squirming into you in relentless coils as her hips roll and rock against your ass, and you can't breathe. Your mouth is hanging open and your gills are flaring, your fins are all the way out and flushed violet, so much that you can feel them. It's like you can feel her everywhere, all over your body, from horntip to toe. It's worse, she's deeper somehow, you're fuller, the curl of her bulge is writhing against your shameglobes and you're going to burst from how much she's filled your nook.

You can't breathe.

"Cod, yes, more," you manage to moan and she chuckles, wicked and delighted above your head and you get exactly what you're asking for. You just want this to finish. _Be fucking done_. Cool fingers stroke over your sides, rub your gillslits and her mouth closes around one of your earfins, sucking as she surges inside you, relentless as the tides. You can feel yourself clenching around her, nook tensing, relaxing, working to make her give up her slurry as you feel yourself racing to the finish line. Yes, yes, yes, please. "Fuck!" You whine, and she laughs again, but she doesn't slow down as you spill, the slurry from your bulge ruining her cushions as the fabric of her couch imprints on your cheek. It's waves and whorls and you grunt as her claws dig into your hips, scraping your skin to the point where you're worried that you're gonna reach back and find yourself bleeding. Her bulge somehow manages to reach deeper as you hear her warble, croon like skywhale songs above you, behind you, you're covered in her.

When she spills into you, your genesphincter graciously allows her genetic material entrance and you can feel the chill being pulled up into your abdomen, you're so. You're so fucking full. You let out a tired trill, high lifting on the end in submissive query and she croons back at you, curls around you with her hand splayed across your belly in possession. The Empress Herself, Her Imperial fucking Condescension, croons mating flush sounds at you while you fight the urge to grubcurl and struggle to get your breath back so you can get out of here under your own power. 

When she lets you go, you stagger out of her quarters with a belly bloated with imperial fuckin Tyrian slurry and dressed in your rumpled clothes with a lipcurling escort of some blueblooded fuck who you want to scratch the eyes out of, but you need her. You need something to lean on. So you don't, despite the way she fucking looks at you, as if you fucking chose this, as if this was what you fucking wanted. As soon as you can, you close yourself into your ablutioncloset, stick your fingers into your nook and press down on your globes until your genematerial sphincter releases and you gush a decadent mess of violet-tinged fuchsia down the drain. Right outta your nook, down your thighs, down into the abyss. Your eyes are so wide they hurt (you are _not_ crying), and your body is wracked with this persistent, ugly shiver. Like you're coming down with something. It's not sickness. You're fine. Fresh as a fuckin' flower. You clean up, mechanical as one of Zahhak's sparbots, and clean, and wash, and clean your traitor corpsehusk until it feels raw in places. Especially between your legs. What do you have to complain about? She made you spill, after all. She didn't have to do that, she was the fuckin' Empress. She'd made sure you'd had a good time.

When you see yourself in the mirror, you punch the deceptive fucking surface reflector so hard it splinters and cracks off the wall.

You're lying over your administrative seating block when your husktop chimes at you. With a leaden hand, you grab your point and track device, and open up the Trollian screen that's calling you. It's. It's her.

calamitousCondescension [CC] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] 

CC: you done good buoy  
CC: i'll wanna sea you in my quarters on the regular  
CC: don't worry aboat ship wave your instructors  
CC: i'll troll you when your empress has need of your sweet lil shellf  
CC: be good until i call you up sugargrub

calamitousCondescension [CC] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] 

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck no.

You just make it to the loadgaper in time to lose everything that's left in your stomach.

calamitousCondescension [CC] began trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]

CC: buoy you ain't never gonna guess on this ship i got pier  
TC: ENLIGHTEN ME THEN  
TC: most eloquent of motherfucking tyrants  
TC: MY WICKED MOTHERFUCKING FISHBITCH  
TC: lay your miracles on me, this unworthy motherfucker  
CC: hoi clam down on that bitch ship or i'm gonna find a wave to slap you silly from thirty parsecs awave  
CC: get my hands all up on your fucking hideous hagfish face like you desurf you terribubble clownfish  
TC: FUCK YEAH TALK PALE TO ME, FISHTA  
TC: tell a hella sicknasty motherfucker more on how you're gonna get your hands all up in his fucking face  
CC: cod i'm gonna do you a grievous harm you piece of bullshark when i sea you next  
TC: ;o)  
CC: ANYWAV--E  
CC: got a lil somefin  
CC: i don't think i'm gonna let you touch  
TC: I WILL AWAIT REVEALMENT OF THIS NEW TOY OF YOURS WITH GREAT ANTICIPATION  
CC: lookit this bass this bass pike i could just get my fronds all over it all the tide

calamitousCondescension [CC] sent totalitarianCaduceator [TC] a picture!

TC: seadwellers ain't got no fucking ass, i am motherfucking disappoint in your taste  
TC: YOU WANT AN ASS A BROTHER CAN WRITE HIVE ABOUT  
TC: you gotta go down spectrum  
TC: AND THAT'S JUST MOTHERFUCKING TRUTH  
CC: ha you wait untide you sea this buoy and his damn bass in perchsonal  
CC: then we'll sea  
CC: you gonna be spoutin a whale new tuna  
CC: also i think that wave a slam at my gorgeous glubbin ass  
CC: you are the worst i fuckin declare  
CC: i'm bannin your beach ass from my platform  
TC: :o)  
TC: (o:  
CC: ugh clowns  
CC: you shella lucky i tolerate you most of the tide  
CC: alrayght i gotta go get ready for some sorta deal wave the admirals  
TC: tell them to stuff a motherfucking trident up their salty dry nooks  
TC: PERSONAL FROM ME TO THEM  
CC: why don't you come on down whale i'm chilling at the acodemy  
CC: tell them yourshellf clownfish  
TC: :oP  
TC: don't have to  
TC: CAN'T MAKE ME  
CC: sometides you just ain't no fun  
CC: but i do wanna sea your gross disgustin face sometide soon  
CC: take a glubbin note on it mark it down particular  
CC: alrayght i gotta jetsam  
CC: ain't like the empire gonna run it own shellf  
TC: you love it  
TC: POWER GETS YOU OFF MORE THAN ANYTHING I KNOW  
CC: you minnow you ain't meant to point it out just pike that  
CC: pike damn buoy  
CC: rude  
CC: i ain't mentioning a few things i betta i could mention aboat you  
CC: take motherglubbing note ocray i am bein polite as ship  
TC: DO I GIVE MOTHERFUCKING OFFENCE?  
TC: or should i send that wriggler you've strong armed onto your platform my fucking condolences now  
TC: SINCE I AM SURE HE FAILS TO MAKE YOU SPILL LIKE THE MOTHERFUCKING SPRINGTIDE  
TC: irregardless of how tight his adolescent nook may be  
TC: AS MUCH AS SOMETHING LIKE AS ENSURING ALL AND EVERY SUNDRY KNOW THEIR MOTHERFUCKING PLACE  
TC: right under your motherfucking wicked spiked walking frond cover point?  
TC: ALTHOUGH SOMETIMES I THINK THAT'S WHAT REALLY GETS YOU OFF WHEN IT COMES TO THESE  
TC: motherfucking wrigglers and nothing else  
CC: psssh  
CC: he's fine he pikes it  
CC: moray than fiiiiiine, you net me  
CC: and he is naut that adolescent  
CC: i shoald mako you take that ship back  
TC: MOTHERFUCKING BITCHTITS JAPERY RIGHT THERE DO YOU MAKE, MY WICKED ONYX DIAMOND  
TC: he's so grey he's probably still calamitously unwell from the surge of space under strut  
TC: SO GREY HE GOT WIGGLER SPOTS EVEN, I PUT MOTHERFUCKING MONEY DOWN ON IT  
CC: oh fuck you

calamitousCondescension [CC] ceased trolling totalitarianCaduceator [TC]


End file.
